Part 4 (1/2)

”Oh, she did not say herself?” asked Dic.

”I don't see that she could have meant any one else,” replied Rita.

”But, dear me, I don't care how often you take hold of her; you need not get angry at me because you took hold of her. There can be no harm in taking hold of any one, I'm sure, if you choose to do so; but why one should do it, I don't know, and I'm sure I don't care.”

No _ex post facto_ resolution could cure that lie, though of course it is a privileged one to a girl.

Dic made no reply, save to remark: ”I'll see Miss Sukey to-morrow. If I wanted to 'take hold' of her, as she calls it, I would do so, but--but I'll see her to-morrow.”

The answer startled Rita. She did not want to be known as a tale-bearer.

Especially did she object in this particular case; therefore she said:--

”You may see her if you wish, but you shall not speak to her of what I have told you. She would think--”

”Let her think what she chooses,” he replied. ”I have never 'taken hold'

of her in my life. Lord knows, I might if I wanted to. All the other boys boast that they take turn about, but--. She would be a fool to tell if it were true, and a story-teller if not. So I'll settle the question to-morrow, and for all time.”

A deal of trouble might have been saved had Rita permitted him to make the settlement with Sukey, but she did not. The infinite potency of little things is one of the paradoxes of life.

”No, you shall not speak of this matter to her,” she said, moving close to him upon the log and putting her hand upon his arm coaxingly.

”Promise me you will not.”

He would have promised to stop breathing had she asked it in that mood.

It was the first he had ever seen of it, and he was pleased, although, owing to an opaqueness of mind due to his condition, it told him nothing save that his old-time friend was back again.

”If you tell her,” continued the girl, ”she will be angry with me, and I have had so much trouble of late I can't bear any more.”

At last she was on the straight road bowling along like a mail coach.

”After I spoke to you as I did the other night--you know, when Tom--I could not eat or sleep. Oh, I was in so much trouble! You and I had always been such real friends, and you have always been so good to me--”

a rare little lump was rapidly and alarmingly growing in her throat--”I have never had even an unkind look from you, and to speak to you as I did,--oh, Dic,--” the lump grew too large for easy utterance, and she stopped speaking. Dic was wise in not pursuing the ebb, but he was foolish in not catching the flood. But perhaps if he would wait, it might ingulf him of its own accord, and then, ah, then, the sweetness of it!

”Never think of it again,” he said soothingly. ”Your words hurt me at the time, but your kind, frank letter cured the pain, and I intended never to speak of it. But since you have spoken, I--I--”

The girl was frightened, although eager to hear what he would say, so she remained silent during Dic's long pause, and at length he said, ”I thank you for the letter.”

A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment came from her breast.

”It gave me great pleasure, for it made me know that you were still my friend,” said Dic, ”and that your words were meant for Tom, and not for me.”

”Indeed, not for you,” said Rita, still struggling with the lump in her throat.

”Let us never speak of it again,” said Dic. ”I'm glad it happened. It puts our friends.h.i.+p on a firmer basis than ever before.”

”That would be rather hard, to do, wouldn't it?” asked the girl, laughing contentedly. ”We have been such good friends ever since I was a baby--since before I can remember.”

The direct road was becoming too smooth for Rita, and she began to fear she would not be able to stop.